


The Apple Tree

by hesterbyrde



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blind Character, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, M/M, Original Character(s), Post Fall, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Spoilers, Switzerland, Will is an Idiot, hannibal is sulking, there is a kitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesterbyrde/pseuds/hesterbyrde
Summary: Wakefulness came slowly, pulling on Will’s senses one at a time like strings on a puppet. Sound came back to him first. Bird calls outside carried on a rustling breeze. Unfamiliar calls, he realized. Sweet songs, but alien to him. And beyond that was a soft, distant slosh of water.Then smell. The cool wind that blew gently across his face carried the minerally scent of lake water, and the aroma of the earth after rain. And most strongly of all was the sharp smell of a barn yard. Or at least of animals. Of hay and warm fur. Of food...





	1. The Trees of Nature Fruitless Be

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings all! Merry Swagmas!
> 
> This is my Secret Fannibal Santa gift to the wonderful anna0gram. Merry Swagmas! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I've actually been stewing on this fic idea since I spent a week and a half on Lake Lucerne Switzerland this past summer. My best friend and I spent our days watching it drizzle, hiking when the weather was clear, and loving on the resident cat, who makes an appearance in the fic. It was just the most wonderful escape, and I couldn't help but picture these two finding their way back to each other while surrounded by such peace and beauty.
> 
> While the fic itself is not a "Christmas fic," I did feel the need to make a nod towards the season, and so the fic and chapter titles are all taken from the 18th century carol, "Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree." It's one of my absolute favorites.
> 
> The entire fic is clean, save for the final chapter, which is smut-tastic. So if you're not into that sort of thing, you can still enjoy the fic!
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I hope you have a lovely holiday season and a fantastic new year!

***

The tree of life my soul hath seen,  
Laden with fruit, and always green.

***

Wakefulness came slowly, pulling on Will’s senses one at a time like strings on a puppet. Sound came back to him first. Bird calls outside carried on a rustling breeze. Unfamiliar calls, he realized. Sweet songs, but alien to him. And beyond that was a soft, distant slosh of water.

Then smell. The cool wind that blew gently across his face carried the minerally scent of lake water, and the aroma of the earth after rain. And most strongly of all was the sharp smell of a barn yard. Or at least of animals. Of hay and warm fur. Of food...

And finally sight came to him when he forced his eyes to open. He could see the sun out of the open window, high in the sky and cloaked in a gauzy film of gray clouds. He blinked, his eyes grimy with sleep and his mouth dry and sticky. He pried himself up and found a glass of water on the table beside the bed and unthinking, he gulped it down. But then, thirst sated and vision clearing, he looked around.

He was in a small room, on one of a pair of twin beds in what appeared to be an old but well maintained log cabin. The peaked ceiling was supported with stout, rough cut beams, and that meant he was on the top floor. It wasn’t built for style, but it was built for comfort in what was probably a rather inhospitable clime. And built to last. It reminded him fleetingly of Molly’s cabin, but her style had never been so provincial. While there was nothing lavish to be found, it was none the less comfortably appointed in a very simple style. Lace doilies on the night stand. Hand stitched blue and white quilts on both the beds. Painted shutters. Sturdy furniture. 

Will tried to sit up further, expecting pain for his trouble, but finding only a dull ache in his side and his shoulder no greater than the general stiffness in his joints from what had likely been a long repose. He turned and looked out the open window. The cabin was perched atop a green hill. Rows of trees all laden with small green fruit followed the slope of the hill, their branches dripping with the recently passed rain. Far below through the haze of fog, Will could see a lake. The water was a murky and almost artificial blue that reminded him of Caribbean ocean water.

He frowned sharply. Where was he? 

Quickly, he catalogued his thoughts and memories. Retracing the steps he could remember. It felt unsettlingly like he’d lost time again. But after a moment’s effort, the scenes came back to him in shocking clarity.

Hannibal taking him to the cliffside chalet.

The bottle of wine shattering.

The fight with the Dragon.

The embrace. Will could feel the fabric of Hannibal's sweater, thick and heavy with blood that squished between his fingers. He could hear Hannibal's short, panting breath as it ghosted over his skin, which heated at the memory.

And then quickly cooled when he remembered pulling both he and Hannibal off the cliff and into the crush of the Atlantic. A desperate and uncalculated attempt to end it all. For both of them. For everyone.

But he’d survived apparently. No way to know if Hannibal had as well, though he didn’t have high hopes. It was a miracle either of them survived, and he was far less injured that Hannibal had been. With the gunshot wound, he’d probably bled out in the water if the fall didn’t kill him instantly.

There had been so much blood. He remembered that fact most vividly of all. Remembered how it tasted in his mouth. How it had shifted from red to black with the angle of the moonlight. How he had admired it. Honestly admired it where it coated his skin in a lustrous patina. He'd even cracked a joke and a smile with Hannibal over the corpse.

Will pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to blot out the sight. When he looked back out over the grayed out landscape, stars still danced across his vision. He tried to think. He’d heard of lakes like this… water that was an opaque, otherworldly blue. The glacial lakes of the northern Rockies looked like that. He'd seen pictures. Maybe he was in Montana… or Canada?

But how did he get here? Who would have brought him out west?

He shuffled and stumbled to his feet, limbs clumsy with disuse. He shambled towards the wardrobe that squatted on the far wall. It sported a full length mirror, and the sight of his reflection shocked him.

He was thin for one thing. Down right gaunt, if he was being honest, with hollowed cheeks and collarbones. He hadn’t been this scrawny since the encephalitis had robbed him of his appetite. And the food at BSHCI had done little to return it to him. And while his hair was longer than it had ever been, his face was clean shaven. A turn of his head revealed why. A row of impeccable black stitches marched along his jaw, expertly sealing the stab wound he’d garnered from the Dragon closed. They itched the instant he saw them.

Will went into a scramble then, pulling off his shirt to reveal two more sets of identical, even stitches, one in his shoulder just below the collarbone and the other in his side. Both were healing well. The puckered skin under the stitches was barely red. And the same was true of his face. In fact, one of the stitches there had come out and tickled against his clean shaven skin. Will plucked it out, rolling the thread between his fingers and pondering the texture as he thought. 

A little thrill of something welled in the pit of his stomach. Hope? Was that it? Hope that what… this was Hannibal’s handiwork? That Hannibal had once again whisked him away to safety. Seen to his wounds and tucked him safely into bed. Will quashed it with a thunderous frown and shake of his head.

Before he could consider any other possibilities, he heard a clamoring noise downstairs, like pots banging together. He felt his heart seize and sink in his chest at the sound. But he decided that he wasn’t finding any answers here. So he pulled his shirt back on, and grabbed the robe off the back of the door and headed down stairs on his still stiff legs. 

The lower floor of the cabin was much the same as the bedroom upstairs. Same rustic, but comfortable furnishings, with hand made appointments. All the windows had their painted blue shutters flung open, inviting in the cool, rain-soaked air.

Will heard a shuffling by his feet followed by a rickety, deepthroated mewling. He looked down to meet the squinting green eyes of an ancient gray tabby cat. Will was instantly smitten, despite not really being much of a cat person. This feline had clearly not had the easiest life, and Will could certainly sympathize. His fur was mussed and uneven, and one ear was missing a sizeable chunk. But his lackluster appearance didn’t seem to quash any of his feline entitlement to affection, and he promptly began making figure eights around Will’s ankles, purring and trilling as he went.

“That’s Freddy.” came a thickly accented woman’s voice from around the corner. 

Will peered around into the kitchen, mindful not to step on the cat, who was still rubbing his bony frame against Will's shin. He saw a short woman with shoulder length gray hair bent over the sink, facing away from him.

“Uh… interesting name for a cat.” Will offered, frowning.

“I named him after that man Freddy Kruger in those American horror movies.” she continued, as Will tried in vain to place the accent. She sounded European, but he couldn’t be sure where. Germany maybe?

“He doesn’t seem like a horror.” Will said leaning down to give him a scratch. The old cat practically stood on his knobby hind legs to press his face into Will’s palm.

“Not to you or me.” She said with a shake of her head. “But to the rest of the animals in the neighborhood,” she made a sound like she was puffing out her cheeks. “He is a terror. Chases anyone who comes near the house. Cat. Dog. Even the ravens stay away.”

She turned, still drying her hands on her apron and crossed to Will. She held out one of her weathered hands, but her eyes never met his face. Instead, she had a championship thousand yard stare that Will recognized from Reba McClane. The woman was blind.

“Will Graham.” he said, taking her hand. It was still damp and smelled of lemon soap.

She made an effort to look up to his face but missed, guessing him to be taller than he was. “Beata Glauser.” she replied with a shining smile. 

“I… I don’t mean to be rude.” Will stammered, rubbing a hand across his neck. “But I… I don’t know exactly where I am.”

“Ah. We weren’t sure you’d remember anything. You were drugged to the gills when you arrived.”

“We?” 

“Hannibal and I.” she replied.

“Han… Hannibal is here?”

She nodded, drifting towards a chair with an outstretched hand. “Out in the orchard, I suppose. He paces out there when there’s nothing to do in the house. For the first week he drove himself crazy wringing his hands at your bedside. I finally ran him out to make splints for the apple trees. Seemed to do him some good.”

“I… I’m sorry…” Will said squinting and shaking his head a little. “But where am I?”

“You’re in Beckenried, Switzerland. Or near enough. The actual town is about two hours to the east.”

Will blinked dully a few times. “Sw… Switzerland? How did I get to…”

“Hannibal brought you.” She answered simply, her smile still unwavering.

“But…” Will’s eyes darted around. “What…”

Beata, hearing the strain in his voice, reached forward to find his arm with her weathered hand. “You’re both safe here. I understand that you both seek not to be found. You’ll see this place is fairly secluded. And I always take on a little extra help in the orchard come harvest time which should be very soon. Nothing to… how do you say… make suspicion?”

Will nodded, swiping a hand over his face. “Okay… I… Sorry, I just… One minute I’m… well... And then I wake up in Switzerland of all places. Do… how do you know Hannibal?”

Beata smiled again, patting his arm. “I’ll let that be his story to tell. He’s out in the orchard, most likely. You should go find him. He’ll be happy to see you awake and upright. He’s been worried sick.”

Will nodded taking a deliberate breath to steady himself. “Thank you, Beata.” he said, touching her hand before leaning down to give Freddy one last scratch behind his mangled ear.

***


	2. Under the Shadow I Will Be

***

I'm wearied with my former toil,  
Here I will sit and rest awhile

 

***

Will made his way out of the cabin and into the mist shrouded orchard. The fog had thickened significantly, blowing up the hillside from the lake below, obscuring it and anything past about twenty feet from view. Will wandered amid the trees. All of them were laden with green, glossy apples. Many branches were splinted up to keep them from breaking under their load. It was clearly going to be a good harvest.

As Will walked downhill, the cabin slowly faded from sight until he was hemmed in on all sides by the fog-cloaked orchard. It reminded him of the search through the catacombs in Palermo. Every arch… every row of trees… all the same. His vision threatened to swim, until at last through the mist, he spotted Hannibal. Will almost questioned who it was at first. A figure dressed in jeans and faded flannel… but the posture was unmistakable. 

Hannibal stood near to one of the trees, rotating an apple in his fingers, seemingly oblivious to Will’s presence. But Will could see the pretense writ into every tense line of his body. He knew Will was coming and had let himself be found just so. It was like viewing a living breathing painting… perfectly posed for the viewer. Will wondered fleetingly if this was how Eve had stumbled upon the Snake in the Garden of Eden. But even the morbidity of that thought did nothing to hem in the relief he felt upon seeing him at last.

“Hannibal.” Will said, his voice catching on the name as if it were a fish hook.

Hannibal turned then, regarding Will with the most guarded expression he’d ever seen him wear. He put on a genial smile about a split second too late for Will to miss seeing the stitching on his humanity. It made his own stitches itch. And something deeper as well.

“Will." he said smoothly. "I’m glad to see you up and about.”

“How long was I out?” Will asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe.

“It’s been a little over two weeks. You haven’t been truly unconscious for all of it, but I’m sure the pain medication is responsible for any gaps in your memory. What do you remember?”

“Nothing after throwing both of us off a cliff on the other side of the world.”

“Ah.” Hannibal said. Will realized belatedly that until that moment, Hannibal hadn’t been sure if their tumble was on purpose or not. His shoulders imperceptibly tightened and his mouth narrowed a fraction. And Will felt an unexpected twinge of guilt worm its way through his gut at the sight.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to our host.” Hannibal said, with false brightness that never reached his flat, black gaze. He started up the hill towards the cabin.

“I’ve already met Beata.” Will said quickly, stopping Hannibal in his tracks. “I asked her how she knew you, but she said I would have to ask you. I suppose that’s the first piece of the larger question of how we wound up in Switzerland.”

Hannibal smiled then, just the barest twist of his lovely mouth. “We were in the orphanage in Paris together.” He responded simply. “Old childhood friends.”

Will snorted humorlessly. “I somehow doubt that’s the whole story.” he replied pointedly. “A wanted serial killer doesn't just show up, wounded and with an equally wounded and wanted stranger in tow, on the doorstep of an old childhood friend on another continent. “

Hannibal, for once in his life, was looking everywhere but Will’s face. “Astute as always.” he breathed, impatience beginning to wear through his composure. “Come, I’ll get those stitches out and then start on dinner.”

 

***

The removal of the stitches reminded Will of another time that he was under the care of Hannibal. When he'd showed up on Hannibal's doorstep with a dead body and viciously bruised knuckles. But this was so different from the treatment of his wounds after Randall Tier.

Then, Hannibal’s motions had all been near caresses, his breath fluttering over Will’s skin like moth wings. The whole thing played out in Will’s head now like a hazy scene from a soap opera, over-layed onto their current state. Every movement by Hannibal in the present was calculated and economical. No touch lingered too long. And his eyes never strayed from his work.

“Are you grateful that the Dragon is gone?” Will asked.

Hannibal gave a little pout in thought. “I was grateful that you didn’t let him kill me.”

“Was grateful?”

“Seems you were saving that privilege for yourself.” Hannibal said, his voice holding the slightest edge.

“It wasn’t like that.” Will replied, hanging his head and averting his eyes. He wanted to explain, but he could find nothing else to say.

Hannibal hummed noncommittally but didn’t press.

Part of Will wished that he would. But mostly because he couldn’t really say what drove him to pull them both over the edge. He could barely even remember those last few moments before the crush of the Atlantic. He remembered the heat of Hannibal's body. The fire in his eyes when he looked at Will.

It would have been fear mostly, if Will had to guess. That's what had driven him to pull them both into the sea. Fear and revulsion at what he was finally becoming. Seemed silly and distant now, even though he could vividly recall the feel of blood drying tackily between his fingers.

Will had called it beautiful. Had finally admitted it. Maybe that was what he feared.

“You’re slipping away again.” Hannibal remarked, as he began cutting the stitches from beneath Will’s collarbone.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Will replied, softly.

Hannibal made that unconvincing humming sound again, and it made Will’s skin itch. He’d never seen Hannibal like this. Closed off and armored. Not that he didn’t have reason. It was just strange and wholly unsettling. And Will had no idea how to begin coaxing him back out.

***

“Did Hannibal tell you how we knew each other?” Beata asked over dinner that evening.

“He… uh, said you were at the orphanage in Paris together?” Will said, his eyes darting to Hannibal’s face. The man remained implacable, focused on his dinner and content to let Will flounder.

“Yes, that’s right. I was a few years older than him, but because I was blind, I was behind in school. A good deal of our classes were together.” Beata expounded. 

“You were born blind?” Will asked.

“No. Scarlet fever, I think is the name in English? I was not quite two years old. Our whole family got it, but I was the only one to survive.” she said. “The nuns at the orphanage didn’t take much of an interest in my education. Too much trouble with so many others to tend to. But Hannibal didn't see it that way.”

There was a pregnant pause, as she waited for a reply. He gave a demure, polite smile and simply said, “You had a way with words, Beata. Even when you were just speaking. I couldn’t bear for that go to waste.”

“And so he’s the one that took the time to see to it that I could write.” She told Will.

“And write you did.” Hannibal replied with a false cheerfulness as he stood to clear away the plates. "Your poetry is still some of the most insightful writing I've ever seen."

Beata found his arm with her hand and patted it gently before proceeding to chatter merrily on about their time in the orphanage, seeming to be sweetly oblivious to the tension between the two men at her table. Hannibal kept animatedly interjecting into her stories, so as not to worry her, but he still kept his eyes quite pointedly off of Will's face.

***

In their room upstairs, the two of them dressed for bed, moving as if magnets were repelling them from each other. All in thick, cumbersome silence punctuated jarringly by creaks of the floorboards or a gust of wind rattling the shutters. They bedded down in the twin beds, the sounds of the night surrounding them. Then Hannibal spoke into the humid darkness.

“She did not tell you the whole story of our time in the orphanage.” 

“I imagined that might be the case.” Will replied.

“She doesn’t know the whole story. And I’d be very much obliged if you didn’t tell her.”

“Scouts honor.” 

Hannibal licked his lips, his tongue making a soft, wet sound in the dark. “I discovered Beata's gift some days after I first arrived at the orphanage. I didn't speak to anyone after Mischa died. Would go about the stone halls like a ghost. Until one day I heard Beata describing the scent of lilacs aloud in the courtyard, to no one in particular. Naturally, I was entranced. And when I learned that she was older than me, but could not yet write, I took great pains to see that she learned. And write little Beata did. Pages and pages of the most beautiful prose. 

"And one day, one of the boys at the school stole the very first notebook of her work from her room. The only copy. She came to me in tears asking if I’d borrowed it, but I hadn’t. Later in the school yard, I heard one of the boys reading it aloud… mocking her exquisite work. And so that evening while others were at prayers, I cornered him in a utility shed. I told him I would break his fingers with a broom handle until he told me where he’d hidden it.”

“How old were you?”

“I was nine.” Hannibal replied softly. “She never knew. I claimed I found it in one of the classrooms.”

"How many fingers did you break?"

"All five on his dominant hand."

“You broke all five of his fingers?”

“Yes." Hannibal confirmed. "But he told me after only one. I think he thought I was bluffing.”

Will felt like ice water was pooling in his gut as he imagined a little, plump-faced Hannibal, not yet grown into his cheekbones, methodically snapping finger bones like twigs. “Did they catch you?”

“No. The boy never told any of the nuns. He made up a story about catching the hand in a door. But he told the other students. They looked upon me with fear after that. But by then I was used to it.”

Will let out a soft breath. “Are you still used to it?”

There was a long, threatening silence. So long Will wondered if he might not get an answer at all. Perhaps sleep had overwhelmed him.

“I thought I was.” Hannibal said finally, before turning onto his side away from Will.

***


	3. I Missed of All But Now I See

***

For happiness I long have sought,  
And pleasure I have dearly bought;

***

The weeks rolled by in uneasy succession. Late summer gave birth to early fall in all its peacocking glory. Beata's lakeside lodge never lost its misty cloak, but all across the hills the trees could be seen stepping into their golden autumn frocks. With winter closing in, Will helped Beata with some repairs around the house. Hannibal meanwhile spent every single hour outside in the orchard, repairing fence rows, splitting wood, and building splints for the increasingly bowed limbs of the apple trees. He came to the dinner table each night with obviously tired and sore muscles, and increasingly callused hands. 

And Will was absolutely certain that he could only be avoiding him. 

To his credit, Will tried on a number of occasions to talk to Hannibal. He even sought him out in the orchard once or twice. But his trouble was only repaid with strange anecdotes rimed in frosty metaphors and silence that often left him feeling as if it were all just a veiled attempt to ruffle Will's feathers.

"Do you know the history of the practice of wassailing, Will?" he asked once, his rapt attention focused on a slowly ripening apple. Its shiny grass-green skin still glistened with the recently passed rain shower.

"Can't say caroling was ever my thing." Will replied, wondering with with no small amount of irritation where Hannibal was going this time.

"The tradition of song and cider predates Christianity ever crossing the English Channel." Hannibal said, pacing away from Will as he spoke, with his long fingers knit together behind his back. 

Will had a sudden and vivid recollection of Hannibal back in his cell at BSHCI. All their petulant, metaphor-laden conversations. All in service of scratching the itch that would have easily have been scratched by strangling the life out of each other or something… had it not been for the bulletproof glass and vigilant cameras.

Or something…

"Wassailing finds its roots in the old pagan traditions." Hannibal went on, wandering amongst the trees and making a show of checking his splints. Once again, Will felt like he was looking at a painting. Something posed and placed just so. "The practice of pouring out cider from the current onto the roots of the apple trees in order to ensure a good harvest the following year."

"Sacrifice is hardly a unique practice." Will replied with a dismissive shrug as he trailed after him.

"Is that how you see it, Will?" Hannibal said, stopping and half turning to look at Will over his shoulder. "Sacrifice. The offering up. The separation from your own goods or services?"

"What else would it be?" Will asked. "It's like a ransom. Gimme your cider, or no apples next year."

"Could it not be a sort of communing? A partnership? A friendship even? Between the trees and the creatures that they both sustain and receive care from?" Hannibal finally turned all the way around to look at him now, his black eyes shining despite the gloom. "Or must it always end in bloodshed. Fruit or otherwise…"

Will stopped in his tracks, struck by the blunt force of the words. "I suppose." was all he could manage as he watched Hannibal drift off into the mist. He let him go this time. Just like he had all the other times before.

***

"Hannibal is certainly different than how I'd imagined he had grown up." Beata mused to Will one day as they took a break from insulating windows for a cup of tea.

"What did you think he'd turn out to be?" Will asked.

"Oh, I never had any specific ideas. But if he ever got his footing in the world, I knew there would be no stopping him." she answered with a merry laugh. "And I think that was true at some point in his life."

"Was there no stopping him at the orphanage either?" Will inquired.

"Oh no." she shook her head. "Not once he found something worth fighting for."

"You mean you." Will said.

"Among other things. Mostly himself. I hold no illusions about that. He took a liking to me because of my "way with words" as he called it. Not because he felt a shred of empathy for me. But it served us both, so I try not to… how do they say? Look a gift horse in the teeth?" Beata worried at the edge of her thumbnail, her eyes more foggy and distant than usual. “The other children feared him. Kept their distance. And if I was with him, it meant they kept their distance from me.” She said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I never heard him in the company of others, and so I worried there must be something monstrous about him. But he was never a monster to me. Always spoke to me in the kindest words. And he welcomed my creativity the way one coaxes a wild animal from its hideaway.”

"By teaching you to write." Will supplied.

"More than that. He defended my writing." She said stoutly. "Even helped me to get published when I was older. But again, it was for his gain. My own fortune was just a bonus. He wanted my words, not me. And thankfully I realized and accepted that before I was old enough for it to sting too much."

Will sifted over her words, masking his pensive silence with a long sip of tea. 

"Tch…" Beata tutted, clearly not buying the cover. "I may be blind, but that makes the gears grinding in your head all the louder. Out with it."

Will snorted, fidgeting with the handle of his mug. "You said this wasn't how you expected Hannibal to be. You'd never seen him like this. What's… what's different?"

Beata pressed her lips into a thin, wrinkled line. "Hannibal was always very self contained." she said after a long silence. "He never seemed to lack for anything. Even in the near poverty of the orphanage. He felt… whole. Insular. Complete." she said firmly. "It's part of what made him so frightening to the other children, I think. It's… it's as if he didn't need them in the same way they needed each other."

"You knew the other children feared him?" Will asked.

"It was impossible to miss. Even for me. Even before…" she paused to lick her lips. "Even before he broke that boy's fingers to get my notebook back."

"So you do know." Will said sitting back in his chair. "About how he got your notebook back."

"When you're blind, all you can do is listen. And there's not a chattier bunch than children." Beata said shaking her head. "So yes. Word got to me quickly, but I did my best to never let him know that I'd learned what he'd done. He seemed to want to protect me from it. Whether it was for my sake or his, I can't say. Maybe both. But I think in that moment of childhood pliability, I decided to adopt a bit of Hannibal's… resourcefulness."

"How so?"

"The boy's mangled hand didn't really disadvantage me." she replied, lifting one bony shoulder in a half shrug. "And his broken bones won me the return of my notebook. And generally, the other playground bullies left me alone after that, not wanting to meet the same fate. Gift horse. Teeth. You can see the pattern. And a little youthful lust for vengeance didn't do much to dissuade my attitude."

"Hannibal wishes you didn't know." Will said, taking another long sip of tea. "He told me specifically not to tell you about how he got your notebook back.

Beata's eyebrows arched in surprise. "That I didn't expect. I didn't think he cared. I just thought he was keeping his tracks covered."

"Seems he didn't want to lose you. Didn't want you to be repulsed."

"So I would keep giving him my poetry to read." she sighed softly. "It was a luxury then, I imagine. The first in what I imagine was a long list of curated comforts. Funny that he shirks them now. He never struck me as the day-laborer type."

Will felt a frown pucker at his brow. "Me neither…" he said, voice trailing off. "Me neither…"

***


	4. The Glory Which I Now Can See

***

His beauty doth all things excel,  
By faith I know, but ne'er can tell,

***

"Hannibal, I wonder if I might ask you a favor." Beata piped up over dinner. "My neighbor down the hill… you know, the one with the sheep? He has to go into Lucerne to deal with some permits and he'll be gone for the day and night. He's already seen wolves on his property this season so he's worried about leaving the flock untended all night. Would you mind staying out with them? Just until he get's back."

Will had to try very hard not to snort with laughter at the very thought of Hannibal staying up all night to play shepherd. To say nothing of the irony.

"Of course." Hannibal replied cordially, which nearly made Will spit his beer across the table. "Tell him I'll gladly help."

"Oh splendid." Beata crowed with a clap of her wrinkled hands. "I'll call and let him know. He said that there's a rifle you can use if the wolves get really brave, but he said usually they stay well out of sight, so you shouldn't need to worry."

"I suppose my presence will be threat enough." Hannibal replied.

Will had to work very hard not to dwell overlong on that statement.

***

And so that next evening at dusk, Hannibal took a dusty bedroll Beata had stored in the attic that reeked of mothballs, and made off down the hill. The tails of his oversized flannel shirt flowed out in the wind behind him, reminding Will of the long woolen overcoat he'd worn back in Baltimore.

"There's a sight I never thought I'd see." Will said softly.

Beata hummed as she cleared the table. "Perhaps the austerity will do him good. He's certainly seemed drawn to it of late. And a night out under the stars can be good for the soul."

"Perhaps…" Will thought, thoroughly unconvinced, as he watched Hannibal disappear into the omnipresent, swallowing fog. His shoulders hunched. His gait a little uneven. And there had been a new bandage on his hand at dinner.

Will saw then, in that moment, with a clarity that clamored in the quiet space around him. He saw what it was that was different about Hannibal now. What made Beata's face pinch when they talked. What kept making Will stop and stare.

Hannibal was, for perhaps the first time since the orphanage in Paris, starved. Not for food, or for violence, but for the beauty and grace he once carried with him like a great mantle. It was the thing he truly craved more than anything else, and was the true end of all his exploits. He was starved for soft things. For kind words. For genuine and perfectly formulated gentleness. Luxurious furnishings that were not only beautiful but indulgently soft. Food that was both impossibly rich and incredibly satisfying. Elegant and tasteful music, art, and poetry that spun webs of gossamer warmth around one's soul. 

Will recalled with stark lucidity the time Hannibal spent with Alana. The plush, secret looks exchanged even before they actually started sleeping together. And Will remembered how he'd made every effort to make Abigail's hospital room less bleak and more comfortable. The books. The electric kettle. The soft blankets in rich, saturated colors rather than the pallid medical pastels. How he'd beamed when Abigail would snug one around her as they talked in her room.

And then with impossible vividness Will could see all the ways Hannibal had offered him that same grace. That same understated but prideful conviviality. In the way a glass of wine was proffered… how a dessert was presented just so… coffee so carefully prepared it was akin to alchemy. A thin skin of hospitality, due diligence, and rightness stretched over an even deeper desire to give back to himself. 

And that was to say nothing of the few occasions when Hannibal had actually touched Will. The thought made him shiver even as the kindled hearth was no more than six feet away. He could feel Hannibal's hands on him. Not quite a caress. Not quite… but a sort of welcoming and inviting gesture. "Come closer…" he always seemed to say in a way that had nothing to do with physical space.

They had gotten it wrong… all of them at the FBI and at BSHCI. Wrong. It wasn't vanity, or lust for excess, or exactness… it was grace. That was his armor. And it had begun with Beata and her poetry all those years ago, and Hannibal had been painstakingly piecing it together ever since. Will might've missed it had he never met her. But he saw it now. He couldn't miss it.

Hannibal had been robbed of all that for years. Years in a cell. And no matter how lavish it was allowed to be, it wasn't his doing. It wasn't truly what he wanted. And so it didn't go to wonder that he had reached out to Will after their butchering of the Dragon. Only to be rewarded with what? Will once again trying to kill him. Not just killing him. But rejecting him. Rejecting the beauty of their efforts.

And now, as Will watched his afterimage amble down the hill, he could see that Hannibal moved with the care of someone much more fragile than he actually was. All those years. All that betrayal. With the gilded armor stripped away, he was little more than that child in the orphanage left to fend for himself.

"Are you going to stand there all evening?" Beata asked, her misty eyes pointed in his general direction but failing as always to track his precise location. Will jumped at her words and shuffled a nervous hand through his hair.

"I thought as much." she said with a knowing smile. "You're a fidgeter, if you didn't know. You're always moving, except when you stop to think. Then, all I can hear are the gears turning in your head."

Will didn't answer as he moved away from the window to help clear the table.

"You know… Hannibal never really told me what had you washing up on my doorstep. But I knew he was in trouble. Do you know why I let him in?"

"No." Will answered.

"Because he had you with him." she answered simply. "And that was a first. I'd never seen Hannibal in the company of anyone. But I could tell by his voice that you were something special to him. He wasn't seeking my help for himself. He never needed my help. But you… you did. And it was enough to make him swallow his pride for what was probably the first time in his life." She paused and bit her lip. "You should go to him."

"I have. He doesn't seem to be interested in talking."

"What do you talk about?"

"I don't know. Nothing I guess." Will shrugged. "He… he always seems to be redirecting me with a prod made of his anecdotes. I just… I just need to tell him… I don't know what I need to tell him. I guess I haven't figured that out yet."

"He doesn't seem to be interested in giving you what you need." Beata wobbled her head back and forth in thought. "Perhaps you should instead take him something he needs?"

Will paused mid-motion. Ideas and scenarios swirled in his head. Some ridiculous. Others ill-advised.

"You're doing it again." Beata swatted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Go on. I've been doing my own dishes for years. Go figure out your scheme."

Will drifted away from the table as a plan took shape. He'd need things. The softest blanket in the house. Maybe two. And a karaffe of something warm to drink. Didn't Beata say there were a few bottles of last year's cider in the cellar? And a lantern to find his way. It was nearly twilight now.

When Will asked if he could borrow a kettle to warm the cider, Beata made a tutting sound in her nose before taking the bottle and shooing him out of the kitchen. "Let me do it. I know you're planning something elaborately sensible at last, so go do what you need to do. I'll have this ready for you."

Will returned with blankets draped over his arm, and a freshly filled kerosene lantern in his hand. Beata draped a traveling karaffe on a cracked leather band over his shoulder. Will could feel the heat from the cider inside seeping into his side.

"Thank you, Beata."

She blew a breath out through her seamed lips. "Oh, don't thank me. I was going to hit you with a frying pan if one of you didn't grow some sense before much longer. Go!" She waved him out the door.

As Will crashed down the hill in the last dregs of daylight, something in the orchard caught his eye. Hanging lustrous and vivid was a single ripe apple, blushed all sweet and pink amidst its still green-skinned brethren. Will stopped, turning it this way and that before bringing it to his nose. It smelled sweeter than summer. Like sunlight made manifest. And so he snatched it from the tree, and scurried on his way.

***


	5. Which Makes My Soul in Haste to Be

***

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,  
It keeps my dying faith alive;

***

Will heard the sheep in the pasture before he saw them. The bells around their necks clanged dully in the damp air. They were little more than shadows in the dimness, dawdling about in the muddy pasture, searching for bits of sweet grass or for a place to bed down for the night. They watched Will traverse their home warily, as if he might be the predator their new guardian was protecting them from.

Will found Hannibal on the far side of the pasture, curled up with a book in a pool of golden light from his own lantern. He surely heard Will approach, but as always he gave no sign of it. Will took the sight in as he had when he'd watched Hannibal slog down the hill. He allowed himself to feel and connect as he rarely ever did with anyone alive. He could see the lines deepened into Hannibal's face with wear and work. Feel the rough, pilling material of the work-shirt against Hannibal's neck. And under it all, he could sense the gaping cavernous void of want in Hannibal's being. The want that threatened to swallow everything around him, and that he kept fed with fine things, and propriety, and pleasurable company. 

"Seen any wolves?" Will asked after a long while.

Hannibal didn't look up from the book, though Will was certain he hadn't read a line since he'd heard Will approach. "Not yet." he replied softly.

Will didn't push. Didn't try to force conversation. He just breathed in Hannibal's want with the night air, and then carefully sat down beside him, snugging one of Beata's down quilts around his shoulders.

Hannibal froze at the touch, going stiff and still as a statue in the instant that he felt the quilt around him. Will was scarcely even sure he was breathing. Whatever reaction he was expecting, it wasn't this.

"I thought you'd be cold. So I brought you a blanket… and some cider." Will said, his voice sounding rather dull in his own ears.

But Hannibal looked up at him like he was a thing of myth and magic. A thousand emotions flitted across his features.

"And look." Will forced a smile and reached into his pocket for a knife and the apple he'd picked on the way down. "The first apple is ripe. Want some?"

Hannibal looked at the apple and then back at Will before nodding dumbly, still blinking in astonishment at what he was seeing.

Will flipped the knife open, shaved off a slim piece of fruit and passed it to Hannibal, balanced on the flat of the blade. It had been his intention that he take it between his fingers, but he surprised Will by leaning down and eating directly from the knife. The intimacy and vulnerability of the gesture shook Will down to his core, and the wonders didn't cease there. 

From his bowed position, Hannibal stretched out on the bedroll to lay his head in Will's lap, pulling the quilt tighter around his frame as he went. Will watched with unflinching awe at the scene unfolding before him. A thousand alien things to say floated to the surface of his mind. Things he'd never dreamed in a million years of ever saying to Hannibal Lecter.

"It's okay."

"I've got you."

"It's alright."

Will hadn't doubted his assessment of Hannibal's mental state, or doubted that his need for the softer, kinder things in the world had threatened to swallow him whole. But he hadn't expected to see the facade wholly shatter. And to actually see it being played out before him in such a raw and unhindered manner… To see Hannibal practically abasing himself at the smallest act of gentleness had tears stinging at Will's eyes.

"Would you like some more apple?" Will settled for saying.

Hannibal nodded, not looking up, and not opening his eyes. And so Will shaved off another piece and fed it to him, from his fingers this time, before cutting himself a piece. It was a bit tart… perhaps a little underripe in truth, but it still tasted like sun-drenched heaven in the face of the encroaching winter.

And so they shared the first apple. And when it was all gone, Will asked, "Would you like some cider?"

Hannibal nodded, and Will helped him to sit up as he hugged the blanket around himself. But before Will could reach for the karaffe, Hannibal crowded into his space. He pulled Will into the circle of the quilt, clinging to him as he had at the cliff's edge halfway around the world. Will could feel the hard-wrought control and distance that Hannibal maintained give way under the absolute and raw crushing want.

"It's alright." Will said, actually speaking the words aloud this time. "I'm not going anywhere. None of this is going anywhere." The assurances tumbled from his mouth with such fluidity that Will was a little surprised at himself. Though less so when he abruptly realized he believed every word he was saying.

Hannibal smiled then, curling his hands around the small of Will's back and pulling him closer. Their lips fell together, and the sound that bubbled up from Hannibal's throat was one of pure ecstatic relief. Will let himself be lost to the kiss, reveling in the heat of Hannibal's breath and the lingering taste of the apple on his lips. 

"Forgive me." Hannibal said abruptly, even as he buried his nose in the crook of Will's neck. "I've surely overstepped."

Will kept his grip firm, so Hannibal didn't pull away further. "It's alright." he said again, believing it more every time he said it. "Tell me… tell me what you want Hannibal. I've… I've been a fucking idiot this entire time."

"You've been shielding yourself from me. You always have." Hannibal answered. "I… I finally think that I don't blame you for it."

"It's that you started shielding yourself from me again… I… I didn't know how to react." Will shrugged. "What do you want, Hannibal? Ask and it's yours."

Hannibal's inky black eyes turned distant as he thought. "I want a home again." he said wistfully. "I want a chalet in France, with tall ceilings and an expansive garden. I want a harpsichord again. And a bed with curtains. And I want the kitchen to be the biggest room in the house with a picture window that overlooks the garden. And I want…" he pulled up short, one hand coming to rest in the curls on the nape of Will's neck. "I want you to be there."

Will smiled at the rawness of the request, fighting the urge to merrily laugh at the idea of Hannibal requesting his very own fairy tale. "Make sure there's a stream where I can fish, and you have a deal."

"I'm serious, Will."

"So am I." Will shot back playfully. "Fishing stream, or no deal."

Hannibal smiled and kissed him again. "And an apple orchard, I think. A small one."

"I agree." Will conceded. "We'll have to see if Beata will lend us some of this season's cider to get us started off on the right foot. Though somehow I doubt she will be stingy."

"She is never stingy." Hannibal said. "You said you brought some cider?"

"I did. I hope it isn't cold."

Thankfully the insulation on the old karaffe seemed to be doing its job. Hannibal unscrewed the cap and hoisted it. "To a bountiful future."

Will took it when he was done. "To a bountiful present. I… have a feeling I have a lot to make up for."

***


	6. Among the Sons of Men I See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this chapter is NSFW!
> 
> Thank you again for reading and for leaving comments and kudos! Merry Swagmas!

***

With great delight I'll make my stay  
There's none shall fright my soul away

***

They passed the night out in the pasture in relative silence, first trading soft touches and kisses and sips of warm cider which all worked to rid their bones of the damp ache of the late autumn air. Then they took turns dozing, Hannibal lying against Will's chest and letting the sound of his breathing and the soft sounds of the sheep off in the dark lull them both into a contented drowse. 

When the sunlight peeked over, setting fire to the early morning sky, they tacitly packed up their things and trudged back up the hill. 

Not a single wolf had shown its face.

"I don't know about you," Will said after a particularly cavernous yawn. "But I think I'm going to get back into bed for a few more hours." He shook their blankets out and draped over the doors of the wardrobe to air out.

Hannibal nodded, the guarded look slowly seeping back into his eyes. "May I join you?"

Will nodded with a soft smile, shucking his jeans and his overshirt and crawling into Hannibal's bed. He curled his back against the wall and dragged the blanket up to make a space for Hannibal to settle into. 

Hannibal tentatively undressed to the same degree, and folded himself down onto the mattress, burying his face against Will's collarbones, as if he were afraid someone might see. Will pulled the quilt snugly around him and felt him relax against his chest. Continuing to follow his instincts, he dropped a single soft kiss down onto the part of Hannibal's hair.

Hannibal tipped his head back and captured Will's mouth with his own. Down in the pasture, he'd been careful and almost deferential when their lips met. But when he kissed him now, here in the cloistered dark of their upstairs room, it was with a ferociousness that surprised Will. He could taste Hannibal's longing with each swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth. And feel it acutely in the way Hannibal's fingers dug into the flesh of his back.

"It's alright." Will told him again, clutching him close and feeling him mold every inch of his tautly muscled body against his.

Will didn't have Hannibal's keen nose, but he could smell Hannibal's growing arousal, even before his shivering and clinging had him arching and rubbing his thickening cock into the hollow of Will's hip.

"Will… Will I…" Hannibal seemed at an uncharacteristic loss for words as he tried and failed to restrain himself.

"It's alright." Will repeated, as he smoothed Hannibal's silvering hair from his face. "Do you want me to touch you? Is that what you want?"

Hannibal just nodded, staring dumbstruck up at Will. Almost as if he expected the whole scene to dissolve should he say or do the wrong thing.

Will pulled back just enough to get a hand between them and skate his palm over Hannibal's growing erection. "I've not ever done this before." Will said, a smile ghosting across his face. "Least not to anyone but myself. But I want you to enjoy this, Hannibal." he put some gentle force into that statement. "I want to do this for you. So tell me what you need."

"Will…" his name flitted from Hannibal's parted lips like a prayer, and his inky dark eyes fell closed as he rutted forward against Will's open palm.

Will took that as encouragement, and gently wrapped his fingers around Hannibal's shaft which twitched in his underwear. He teased for a long while, not with any sense of cruelty, but with a desire to draw out Hannibal's pleasure. To make this moment last and last, so that he would believe Will when he promised that everything would be alright, and that he wasn't going anywhere. Hannibal seemed keen on it too as he didn't fret or force or grab anymore. He just laid back against the pillow, eyes half lidded, and gasped Will's name over and over as if he were calling to the Almighty himself.

When Hannibal's underwear was thoroughly soaked by precum, Will finally took pity and slipped his hand below the waistband. The first tentative contact of skin on skin sent Hannibal arching off the bed again, chasing more sensation as he gasped and hissed through bared teeth.

"Shhh…" Will soothed, moving to draw lazy circles along the crease of Hannibal's hip. "I want to make this good for you, but I don't want it to be over quick."

Hannibal nodded shakily in agreement. "Me neither. Will… Will please…"

"What is it, Hannibal? Tell me what you want."

"Don't… not too much pressure just… just let me thrust into your hand. I…" He collapsed back onto the mattress as Will followed his instructions. He made a loose fist and Hannibal pushed his throbbing length over his fingers in slow, rolling thrusts.

Will wondered idly how that would feel inside him. Between his teeth. Buried deep in his ass. He'd never done that before either, but his own erection jumped at the thought.

Hannibal was exquisite like this, Will thought as he watched Hannibal pleasure himself. In the growing, golden light of dawn, Hannibal looked nearly beatific in his ecstasy. He could have easily been one of those Renaissance paintings of martyrs… those so attuned to their fate and their circumstance that they seem to be blessed by it even as they suffered.

Will bent, and kissed Hannibal's forehead, unable to bear to look at him any longer for fear of his own desires overtaking him. 

Suddenly, Hannibal's liquid, rhythmic thrusting lost its tempo. His eyes flew open and he clung to Will's shoulders as Will tightened his grip around his cock. 

"Will, please…"

"It's okay. I've got you. This is for you, Hannibal. Make it what you need it to be." he whispered.

Hannibal grabbed Will's elbow so tightly that his knuckles bleached white. And then he came, soundless and open mouthed, his eyes never leaving Will's face. He shook and trembled, and ultimately crumbled against Will's chest where he lay gasping for air like a landed fish as his cock spasmed and twitched.

"I've made a mess of you." Will said, a smile coloring his voice as he brushed a stray strand of hair from Hannibal's forehead.

Hannibal returned his expression, his uneven teeth glinting in the morning light. "I've made a mess of myself."

Will silenced his disagreement with a kiss. "Let me get a washcloth." he said, clambering over his still trembling form and walking stiff-legged to the bathroom.

When he returned, he saw Hannibal's eyes slide down to stare intently and hungrily at his own erection rather handsomely tenting the front of his boxers. Will gave a sheepish smile as he wiped Hannibal down.

"May I touch you?" Hannibal asked, when Will had finished cleaning them both up.

Will hesitated, not because he didn't want it. He did. Oh, how he did, and his cock jumped at the thought of what Hannibal might want to do to him. But he hesitated because he had wanted this to be for Hannibal.

But as Hannibal reached for him, long fingers curling around his shoulders and easing him down onto the bed, Will remembered the night he'd killed Randall Tier. How Hannibal had welcomed him home. Touched him. Practically cradled him without resorting to anything more than fleeting brushes and gestures. And if that's what Hannibal needed now, then that's what Will would give him.

He followed his direction, allowed himself to be placed on his back. He half expected Hannibal to explain what he intended to do… to go on some tangent about serotonin and neural responses and the pleasures of the human form. But instead, completely without preamble, Hannibal exposed Will's angry, red cock and sucked it down in a single pull of his eager, ravening mouth. Will had to jam his fist between his teeth to keep from screaming with both shock and satisfaction. The hot, rhythmic suction was perfect, just as everything about Hannibal was perfect. Just on the verge of pain, but so exactly and precisely pleasurable, that the white hot ecstasy ate through Will's consciousness like acid.

"Hannibal…" he moaned gently knitting his trembling hands into Hannibal's hair. "You're perfect. God, don't stop…"

And he didn't. Will wasn't sure he even knew how Hannibal was managing to breathe while seeming to uninterruptedly deepthroat Will's cock. And when he began to massage the underside of his shaft with his tongue, Will began to lose all sense of control or restraint. His balls tightened and his hips bucked, and Hannibal rode it out, dauntlessly driving Will to orgasm.

When he came, Will was fairly certain he blacked out for at least a few seconds. His brain fizzed with ecstasy as the climax rippled out under his skin. He came back to himself, sheened in sweat, with one hand in Hannibal's hair and the other fisted painfully in the sheets. Hannibal looked up at him, his dark eyes shining as he continued to suck Will's softening cock.

"Jesus, Hannibal." Will breathed, dragging him back up to lie beside him.

"Now I've made a mess of both of us." Hannibal said, a hint of satisfaction threading through his tone. It felt familiar somehow. That old preening swagger was coming back to roost at last, and Will warmed at the thought.

"Lets shower and then try this sleeping business again." Will suggested, even as he let himself burrow deeper into the divide between Hannibal and the mattress.

"I agree." Hannibal assented. "And we'll use the other bed."

"Good planning." Will said, his pleasure slackened face cracking into a lazy grin.

Hannibal mirrored the expression, pulling him close again. "Thank you, Will."

"You shouldn't thank me just for pulling my head out of my ass." 

"I do think we both were in a similar contorted predicament. And I also had my pride to contend with, and it is a stubborn opponent." Hannibal said, his gaze becoming distant. "Hopefully, this will not be an issue in future."

Will stretched up and kissed him, reveling in the feel of his plush, swollen lips against his. "Let's make sure the chalet in France isn't on a cliffside, and I think that will solve most of our problems."

"No cliffs and a stream for fishing. I think Provence will do nicely."

***


End file.
